(First appeared in Doubletake Magazine, Issue 8, Spring 1997, pg. 56; and is also in The Soup of Something Missing.)Hell's Hell

A waitress clears away the midday plates.The skinny cook sweats and scrapes grease off the grill,stopping only for a drink of cold water.The bottom corner of the restaurant’s window is broken.The owner’s been meaning to replace the cardboard patchwith new glass since it broke last year.The three remaining customers ask for more beer.They’re talking about robbing the beauty supply store, or the bank

next to it, or the bridal salon, pharmacy or bakery.Together they have enough moneyto buy a gun and some bullets.This isn’t the first afternoon they made such plans.Back in December they had the sameconversation as they wiped their bowlsof potato soup with chunks of bread.But today, again, nothing happens.

Wind pushes against the cardboard patch.It swings as if on a hinge.A passing woman leans against the window,curves a hand at the side of her face to block the sunand looks inside. She sees the waitress, three customers,but not the cook who went out back to relieve himself.The waitress briefly stares at the woman's black silhouette.Only a moment in hell's hell could be like this.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Poems without titles are like anonymous people. Example, there’s a tall man with long, gray hair standing at the checkout register in the supermarket. You say to yourself, “there’s a tall man with long gray hair standing in line at the checkout register in the supermarket.” Not much there. But if the person has a name, title, everything changes. The example continues, you see the same man but in this version you know his name. You say to yourself. “there’s George Washington standing at the checkout register in the supermarket.” A million ideas are swirling around in your head. Knowing person’s title changes everything. Poems should have titles. “Untitled” is not a title.

Titles in a poem can also function like background music in a movie, atmosphere and tone. The article The adds nobility to a title, and if not nobility then a certain amount of importance.

Titles are a struggle, at least for me. Sometimes I go to a list of interesting words and read the definitions searching for one that might work as a title. The word should aptly describe the emotional, not literal, content of the poem.

René Magritte, the Belgian surrealist often employed and interesting titling strategy for his paintings. He would invite friends for dinner. After eating and a couple of bottles of wine he would invite suggestions for names for a newly completed painting. “The Empire of Lights.” “Threatening Weather.” “The Discover of Fire.” “The Voice of Space.” His titles are poems. I’ve used one as starting point for a poem* and titled it after the painting.

I’m one of the few poets who doesn’t read much Wallace Stevens. This is my diplomatic way of saying I’m not big on his poems. Perhaps I should read him again. I’m getting off the subject. Titles. Stevens was another one great with titles. “The Emperor of Ice Cream.”

Haikus are titles. On my to-do list is write a poem using an ancient haiku as the title. And a poem that is shorter than its title? Why not.

The title of this book says much about my philosophy on titles. Ironmongery.Titles are poems.

* The Magician's Accomplice

after Magritte

A copper tube hangs from nothingand hides everything above the shoulders.Chicken wire surrounds her pale naked body.Six feet across the stageher blond hair rises from another tube.The brown curtain is amazed.Only the polished wood floor sawthe way her lipstick smudged the cuff of his shirtas he pressed the soft gag against her mouth,the way the velvet ropes held her,the way stage lights smiledon the curve of the blade.Mountains sit in the audiencewearing hats made of clouds.

The magician bows.The accomplice drags the bodythrough the alley, all the while dreamingof pulling riddles out of eyes.The magician dreams of being cut in halfor flying from a black hat pastthe ropes that raise mirrors over the city.The accomplice wants to learnthe magical qualities of murder,how anyone with a knife in handcan be a temporary god.

a little about me

I'm a poet, freelance ad guy, writer, and photographer. I worked for 14 years in the L.A. office of DDB as an associate creative director. I also teach poetry at UCLA Extension; and when I’m not teaching there I teach copywriting at USC’s Annenberg School of Communication. Previously, I taught copywriting at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena for 25 semesters, and at Otis College of Art for 3. My professional life as an ad guy is pretty intense and limits teaching to one night week, though I really enjoy it. I've been lucky in the advertising world and have managed to win many awards including a Gold Pencil from the One Show and a Cannes Lion. My first full-length book of poetry, The Soup of Something Missing, published by Bear Star Press, and The Invention of Fiction, my chapbook was published Hollyridge Press. Sarabande Books published my second full-length book, Death Obscura! My next book, I'm No Longer Troubled By the Extravagance, will be published by BOA next year.

My UCLA Extension Class

interviews

Poeticdiversityinterviewed me a while back. You'll also find an interview, and I'm using the word interview carelessly, on Alexis Orgera's The Bog Poetic.

Beth Spencer of Bear Star Press interviewed me for her blog. Take a look.

Advertising Portfolio

Take a look.

Commercial from the Super Bowl

This is a commercial I wrote that appeared on the Super Bowl and won advertising awards around the world, and is in the premanent collection of a museum. In a special on television commercials, CBS said it was the fourth funniest Super Bowl commerical of all time. Another network said it was the second funniest commercial of the year.